


Five Holidays That Never Happened

by gelbes_gilatier



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe, Chance Meetings, Christmas, Courtship, Established Relationship, F/M, Flash Fic, Fourth of July, Friends to Lovers, Holidays, Hurt/Comfort, Making Out, Marriage Proposal, New Year's Eve, One Night Stands, Painkillers, Pregnancy, Slow Burn, Soldiers, Strangers to Lovers, Thanksgiving, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 02:45:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17112968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gelbes_gilatier/pseuds/gelbes_gilatier
Summary: If Maureen Reece had never been transferred to the SGC in mid-2003, Thomas Moore and she still would have met. Their story just would have been... a little different.





	Five Holidays That Never Happened

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Minor Characters I: Odd Man Out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/633749) by [gelbes_gilatier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gelbes_gilatier/pseuds/gelbes_gilatier). 



> This bunny basically _assaulted_ me sometime two weeks or so ago, in the morning, directly after waking up and then wouldn't do what "right after waking up" bunnies usually do, which is disappear and leave me alone. It persisted and it wouldn't go away and it got really worse when I accidentally figured out a way to write it without having to open up a whole 'nother host of multi-chapters _and_ how I could use it as this year's sort of kind of Christmas story. So I sat down and wrote and then somehow this _monster_ of a "Five Things" story came out and I also somehow managed to finish it before going offline for Christmas tomorrow afternoon. So... yay?
> 
> Oh, just as a caveat: I played fast and loose with the weather here. There wasn't, in fact, a blizzard in Washington, D.C. on January 1 2004 (actually, it was pretty warm. Yuck.), nor was it particularly cold on Thanksgiving 2003 and neither was the East Coast north of New York snowed in on December 24 2003. I just took artistic license with that. But I still googled all of that, anyway *rolls eyes
> 
> Also, happy holidays to all my readers! It was a lovely year once again, thank you for your patience, your kudos, your reviews and also just reading and liking my stuff in silence because I honestly love you all the same, no matter if you spoke up or not. You are what makes writing fic still the best hobby in the world!

** Five Holidays That Never Happened **

_“When the world is ever changing_  
_Like a candle in the dark_  
_There’s a source of inspiration in the air_  
_Let the magic dry your tears and heal your heart_

_A wonderful dream of love and peace for everyone_  
_Of living our lives in perfect harmony_  
_A wonderful dream of joy and fun for everyone_  
_To celebrate a life where all are free.”_

_Melanie Thornton, “Wonderful Dream”_

 

I

 In the end, it’s all Anna Williamson’s fault.

 It all starts on a the Fourth of July 2003, in a medium sized military family home’s garden in Falls Church, surrounded by equally medium sized military family homes with manicured lawns and tastefully arranged garden furniture. Not the aforementioned specific one’s, though, because the family living there consists of an Air Force major and a sociology scholar and two toddlers, and toddlers have no sense for orderly gardens and immaculate lawns.

 It’s Dr. Anna Williamson and Major Charles Williamson’s annual Fourth of July party, and this is where Second Lieutenant Maureen Reece, US Marine Corps, meets Major Thomas Moore, US Air Force. She’s there because she’s been teaching Russian to the NROTC kids at George Washington University since she came to D.C. and because she wouldn’t have had any friends in this entire town if it hadn’t been for a chance encounter with Anna Williamson in the Columbian College of Arts & Sciences building cafeteria that involved spaghetti, tomato sauce and a ruined uniform last September.

 He’s there because inviting him had been unavoidable and unfortunately his mission in his super-secret new job had been cancelled last minute.

 They don’t hit it off on first glance, mainly because he’s being smug about something and she hates men who are smug about things. She likes his best friend, though, another Air Force officer, who doesn’t let anyone give her crap, not even the Golden Trio of Majors – Williamson and Anna’s brother and this guy who’s smug about something – who all outrank her and who all seem to have a healthy respect for this Captain. Secretly she thinks that when she’s a grown-up, she wants to be _exactly_ like Laura Greenspan.

 She isn’t a people person, and large gatherings of people she doesn’t know and people she has to interact with aren’t her favorite place to be but she can hold her own. It’s just kind of exhausting and this is why Moore finds her sitting on the front steps of the house, nursing a glass of tepid white wine spritzer while the rest of the party is happening in the backyard and the sun is slowly going down.

 “Hey,” he says, “you okay?”

 She’s not sure what surprises her more: that he of all people is the one party guest coming across her out here or that he doesn’t sound off-handedly when he says that but genuinely… well, not _worried_ but like he means it. He’d really like to know if she’s okay. She hadn’t expected the guy she met back in that garden – smug, irreverent, kind of obnoxious – to come out here and be interested in her personal welfare.

 She doesn’t bother with hiding her bewilderment but takes care not to make it a big deal. Instead she takes a moment to compose herself, then turns around and tries to give him a brave, unimpressed face. “Yeah, fine.”

 “Not a party person, huh?” So being monosyllabic hadn’t worked, then. Did she mention that she finds him sort of obnoxious?

 She shakes her head. “No, sir, with all due respect, I just…” Just what? Want to be left alone? Am perfectly fine here by myself? What could she possibly say that wouldn’t make her sound like the most unsociable lieutenant in this woman’s Marine Corps?

 He takes a moment and she almost expects him to invade her private space, inflict his presence on her, make her socialize but he surprises her, again. “Look, Anna just thought someone should check on you, and since I was on my way inside to get something to drink, I told her I’d do it. And seeing that you’re obviously fine…”

 Ah, hell. He’d just tried to be nice, to his hostess, even to her, whom he never met before. She makes an apologetic face. “I’m… sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”

 It makes him grin, not smug at all. More… self-deprecating? “Nah, it’s fine. I get it. Everyone needs a break sometimes. You go on enjoying yours.”

 Some people, she thinks, you need to take a second look at to realize that they deserve more than just a passing glance. So he was smug when she came across him a few hours ago. So what?

 She gives him a friendly look and moves to get up. “Actually… I think I need something new to drink. This hasn’t aged well.”

 He takes a step forward, taking the glass from her hand, making a disapproving face. “Don’t bother. I’ll go get you something better.”

 And with that, he’s gone, and she doesn’t know whether that was patronizing and she should be pissed off or just another attempt at being nice and she should appreciate it.

 She still hasn’t quite decided when he’s back, two bottles of Beck’s in his hand, the bottles already sweating in the sweltering July evening. He opens one with the other and hands her the open one and she looks at him with her eyebrows raised. “How’d you know I’d like that better than the white wine?”

 He shrugs. “You’re a Marine, right?”

 Ah. “Way to go with the stereotype, sir.”

 Another shrug. “You don’t fit in with all other Marine Corps stereotypes, so I figured you had to fulfill at least _one_.” Right. That doesn’t make any sense. “And Tom’s fine, Kid.”

 She glares at him. She hates people belittling her, and she hates _men_ doing it even more. So she’s what, five, six years and three ranks his junior. So that doesn’t give him the right to give her unwanted and condescending nicknames. “I have a _name_.” 

 To her annoyance, he looks completely unfazed by her irritation. “Maureen, right?”

 She knows how she must look right now: a twenty-something looking too young to be holding any military rank or authority to command, wearing shorts and a spaghetti strap top and her hair in a messy bun, sitting on a front step somewhere in Falls Church, indignant and pissed off at an Air Force major. He’ll find her hilarious, and he’ll tell her any minute. She doesn’t care. She’s a _Marine_. “Yes. Maureen.” And… now he’s gonna laugh his fucking _ass_ off. Maureen the Marine. “You know what? Never mind. Just… never mind.”

 “It’s a nice name. I kinda like it. Sorry for not using it.” Why does he keep doing that, she thinks. Being an ass, being an idiot, but never going full asshole. Being so _nice_ when she doesn’t expect it.

 She shakes her head. “I… it’s not you. Meeting new people just… isn’t my thing.”

 He smiles. No grin or smirk, just a little warm half-smile. It does… _something_ to her. “It’s not mine, either.” She finds it hard to believe that. “May I?” Oh. He’s smart enough to actually ask before sitting down next to her. And _wait_ until she nods her approval. It takes her a moment because she remembers what that smile just did to her and she doesn’t know if she wants that again. But she nods. In the end she nods. He sits down, making a face, using the step to open his bottle in a move she has never seen before. “I know what you’re thinking. This guy and being bad with new people? No fucking way.” He’s improvising. She’s sure of that. But he isn’t half bad at it. “Long story, short: Anna once called me “an acquired taste”.”

 She’s not entirely sure if the slightly pained face is real or if he’s just adding it for dramatic effect. Maybe it’s real, because it makes her reconsider her reply. It was supposed to be something about her being right, something about him and being smug and first impressions. It ends up being, “You’ve known each other for a pretty long time, haven’t you?”

 “Yes,” he replies and he looks away for a moment with a face that’s part wistful, part astonished, “almost fifteen years.” He shakes his head, more to himself, then looks back at her, still looking he can’t quite believe it himself.

 In the summer twilight, she shouldn’t be able to make out his eye-color but for some trick of light or other she realizes that they’re grey and that she has never seen anyone with grey eyes before and that she _likes_ his grey eyes. She wills herself to hold his gaze, to not make him see her discomfort at that realization. “How’d you meet?”

 It’s him who breaks the eye-contact and she’s almost jealous of how effortless he makes it look, and embarrassed because it’s entire possible that this “moment” was very much one-sided. “Went to the Academy with her brother and her husband, it was inevitable at some point.” She knew that Charles Williamson is an Academy grad and that he graduated as one of the top three cadets of his class and that Anna’s brother was one of the other two. She just hadn’t realized that Thomas Moore was the third because she’d never have put him in the ring-knocker drawer of military academy grads. Maybe he’s not the only one who needs to watch his stereotypes here. “You?”

 Mh? “What about me?”

 “You and Anna. How did you two meet?” Right. Well. That could have gone better. Way to go, Lieutenant.

 She takes a sip from her bottle of beer and rolls her eyes. “In an on-campus cafeteria at GW. We literally bumped into each other and her spaghetti spilled all over my uniform. She wanted to pick up the dry cleaning bill and wouldn’t let it go until I said yes.”

 It makes him laugh and she finds herself liking the sound of it. It’s low and warm and she’d be lying if she didn’t attach “sexy” to it, too. “Yeah, that sounds like Anna alright.” He looks at her again, and there’s still just enough light to see that grey again and she’s not entirely sure whether she wants the sunset to linger or be over. “What were you doing there? You’re not a recruiter, right?”

 So he paid _some_ attention when Anna formally introduced them to each other, at least. She shakes her head. “I sometimes volunteer to help out the NROTC staff with language training for the cadets.”

 “Anna said you’re a linguist.” Yep, definitely paid attention, despite looking too busy with being smug about some thing or other. Actually, paid more attention than her because for the life of her, she can’t remember whether Anna told her about his MOS or job or not.

 She nods. “Yes. 2721, Linguist, Russian.” She knows a couple more languages, but that’s what the Corps gave her and she’s not complaining. It got her a posting in the Pentagon, and she figures she’ll do her six years and use the benefits for a Master’s degree and maybe even a PhD and then forget she ever thought serving as a US Marine would be a good idea for a rather bookish student of languages who has a dislike for being yelled at. “And okay, this is embarrassing because I’m sure Anna told me…”

 “She didn’t.” Huh? How did he even anticipate what she was about to say? “She knows better than that, her husband being in Personnel and all that.” Okay. That’s… weird? “13CX.” She is fairly sure that she never heard that one before, and that’s not because it’s an Air Force code. “Special Tactics Officer. That’s… the specialty code for Special Tactics Officer.”

 What’s so strange about this is the way he says it. She knows that this most likely refers to a special operations MOS, and everything in her time at the Pentagon taught her one thing: lots of people from the vicinity of special operations _love_ to brag. Not in that overt way that male Marines like to do, but in an understated “Look at this Ranger tab on my shoulder, yes, I was in Fallujah, no, no, let’s absolutely talk about something else” way that sometimes feels even more obnoxious. Thomas Moore didn’t do that. Thomas Moore sounded as if he truly hadn’t wanted to tell her that. Because it makes him feel uncomfortable, like it’s something bad. Like a stain on a uniform.

 She softly clears her throat. “I… I don’t know what to say to that.” If she tells him that it sounds exciting, he’ll think her a moron, and he’d be right. If she asks him if he’s seen action, he’ll mostly likely tell her that it’s classified and because he didn’t brag, he’d be the first person who tells her that she’ll believe.

 He gives her a knowing, humorless smile. “That’s okay. Most of the time, I don’t know, either.” At first, she’s not sure how to react to that but then his smile turns into a grin, with at least a little humor in it and he realizes that he probably didn’t lie, probably was being serious but doesn’t fail to appreciate the absurdity of it all. She likes that. A lot. “So what is it that a US Marine Corps linguist does in Washington, D.C.?”

 She recognizes a desperate attempt at deflecting interest from oneself when she sees it, and because she likes him a lot more than she thought she would, she lets him have it. She rolls her eyes. “I’d really like to say “I could tell you but then I’d have to shoot you” but in truth it’s just really boring translation work at the Pentagon. Nothing exciting about it.” And nothing meaningful or impactful, either but she can live with that. She’s been telling herself to for over a year, and with any luck, she’ll manage to believe it before her tour is over.

 “Boring,” he says after a moment of silence and there’s something in his look that makes her reconsider everything she assumed about him, something painful and vulnerable, “got its bad rep completely undeserved.”

 It makes her swallow. There’s this cliché of people “having seen _things_ ” that is horribly tasteless and overused but Thomas Moore… Thomas Moore has _seen things_. That’s what that look and that carefully worded statement and that hand run through his hair just told her, and there’s nothing cliché and all truth about it. This isn’t how she thought a simple Fourth of July party at her friend’s house would go.

 She looks away. “I…”

 “Listen,” he says, interrupting her with a weird franticness to his voice, at least for a moment, “do you want to go somewhere else? Just… _anywhere_ else?”

 At first glance, that came right out of the blue and her first instinct is to tell him no because she’s not the kind of girl – the one that goes with the stranger she has known for all of ten, fifteen minutes at the drop of a hat when he tells her “Let’s leave this party, I know where to have a good time” – but truth to be told she doesn’t really know what kind of girls she is. And she thinks that maybe this party is more exhausting for him than for her and that she doesn’t really want to be around when the fireworks start and maybe, _maybe_ she is that kind of girl after all.

 She gives him a hesitant look. “I… I don’t usually do that kind of stuff.”

 He smiles a little honest half-smile. “Me, neither, swear to God.”

 Well. “Okay, then.”

 He grins. “Okay, then.”

 And this is how it all starts. And it _is_ Anna Williamson’s fault.

II

 The second time Major Thomas Moore and Second Lieutenant Maureen Reece meet, it happens, curiously, again at that medium sized military family home in Falls Church. It’s the Thanksgiving party that Anna throws for her friends and family, as a deal with her mother-in-law so that Mrs. Williamson the elder won’t be the only suffering through Christmas at what she and Major Williamson like to call The Terrible Tudor. She lets Anna and Charlie celebrate Thanksgiving at their warm and welcoming Falls Church home so they don’t have an excuse to stay away from the New England ancestral seat of the Williamson family.

 So it’s Thanksgiving at Anna and Charlie’s again, and for some weird fit of chance, Thomas Moore is in D.C. on some boring Homeworld Security business or other – he already had forgotten about it the moment he’d left the stuffiest meeting room of his life after the worst company grade directed briefing of his life – and there’s no way for anyone to tell him that the standard invitation was not _actually_ meant to be serious, and quite frankly, Anna would probably have made Charlie sleep in his office for a week if he’d even attempted that. Anna, at least, genuinely likes Tom.

 So he’s in town, and he’s at Anna and Charlie’s, and he’s _not_ perking up and staring at the doorway every time another guest arrives, half-hoping, half being _terrified_ that it’s _her_. It’s been four months, nearly five, okay, almost six and he never heard a word of her after that Fourth of July when they decided to bail on the rest of the party – he’s not sure if Anna has forgiven him yet for that, but considering that she hasn’t mentioned it even in a veiled comment, he’d bet his entire year’s pay that she hasn’t – and wandered around Falls Church and just kept talking and okay, yes, ended up at Maureen Reece’s place and, _yes_ , in her bed, all the while swearing up and down the wall that they don’t normally do that kind of stuff in between heavily making out with each other before she even got to open her door.

 He knows he could have written, could have called, could have fucking _faxed_ but the truth is, he’s been busy in the last months, back to back multi-day black ops missions all over the Milky Way, interspersed with exercises from team level up to wing on alpha and beta sites and that provided a handsome excuse for not calling her and getting the most likely outcome: a really polite and friendly and ultimate set-down. As long as he didn’t call her… he could tell himself that maybe, _maybe_ she was interested in more than just one chance encounter ending in a one-night stand. If he called her… he knew he wasn’t.

 Everyone thinks he deals well with rejection, that he’s the one dealing them out, not the one reeling them in, that he breaks hearts, never gets his heart broken but the truth is that he just perfected his timing in jumping the ship _before_ the question between rejection and acceptance ever stood to debate, so it wouldn’t hurt as bad. So far, it worked. More or less. Less. Usually, it worked less.

 And anyway, _she_ could have called, too, and she never did and…

 She’s here.

 Don’t panic, he thinks, it’s not like they were in some kind of relationship or something and it’s not like they made each other any promises or anything. They just had a pretty great summer evening… and night and that was. She wasn’t even there in the morning because she went on a run at the ass crack of dawn before going to work and he used that as his cue to leave a couple pancakes in her oven – since seriously, he’s not an animal, if he had great sex the night before, he damn straight knows how to say thanks, _okay_ – and then make his way back to the Mountain.

 And now she’s here and it sounds like Anna just said hello and then took her coat oh good, now she’s in the dining room where there are already at least five other people _and_ both his favorite Academy buddies because _of course_ they had to send Lorne to the same bullshit Homeworld Security event they sent him to and… okay, she decided not to acknowledge him. That’s fine. He can work with that. So maybe he’ll just walk over to let’s say Lorne to… “I know, I know, I’m sorry. I should have warned you but it was a bit of a last-minute addition and…”

 “No, it’s okay, Anna. It’s fine.” Okay. So he just overheard Anna apologizing to Maureen and…

 “You know, since he’s here, maybe you should…”

 “I really don’t think…”

 “I know, I know, not my business, but honestly, you should talk to him…”

 Alright, that’s enough. Lorne is making a beeline for him but this is more important right now. He signals Lorne that he’s got somewhere else to be right now and decides to be his usual impolite self and inserts himself _right_ into the frantically half-whispered conversation between Anna and Maureen, a couple feet away from him, by walking straight over and diving in directly. “Talk to me about what?”

 Both women kind of look like they’d tell him to get lost, and he probably deserved that. It’s Maureen who finds her voice first. “Why do men always think everything is about them?”

 Weeeell, generally, he’s actually pretty much in her side, what with being annoyed with men always making it about themselves but…

 “Look, Maureen, I’m totally on your side, you know that, right?” Okay, so Anna beat him to it. And well, he sure as hell hopes Maureen does. Everything he learned about how not to be a chauvinist asshole, he learned from Anna Williamson and Laura Greenspan. He’s just not so good with always applying that knowledge. “But you have to admit that in this particular situation… it kinda really is about him, too?”

 Something tells him that this isn’t going to end well. “Guys, seriously, _what_ is this about?”

 They exchange a _look_ and he starts to get a real bad feeling. Anna turns to make another attempt. “Maureen…”

 She throws her hands up in the air and he realizes for the first time that _something_ is different about her. Something in the way she… “Okay, _fine_. Just… not in here.”

 Anna nods. “Probably better that way. You can go upst…”

 “I got a feeling we should take this _out_ side.” Hey! Take _what_ outside? Outside where? “Come on.” Huh, what? “Yeah, you. _Tom_.” Oh, okay. Throwing Anna one last helpless look, he follows Maureen outside through the mudroom and, okay, when she said _out_ side, she _meant_ _outside_. She drags him across the porch, down the front steps and a few steps down the path up to the house.

 When they’re almost on the sidewalk, he decides that he’s been dragged around enough, snatches his sleeve away from her hand and says, _almost_ growling, “What the _fuck_ is going on, Kid?”

 Immediately, she turns to face and glare at him. “I _told_ you, I have a _fucking name_.”

 Yeah, and it’s a really nice name, but something in him just makes him go all Humphrey Bogart when he’s around her, and that’s probably why he’s stupid enough to give her a smirk and drawl, “You seemed to like the nickname just fine when we made out in your doorway,” as his answer.

 He _immediately_ knows it was a bad idea when the glare intensifies and she takes a step back and damn, why is _that_ the moment that he realizes she looks just as hot in a somewhat voluminous blouse and a stretch pencil skirt and tights and boots as she did in those shorts and spaghetti… “Don’t fucking remind me.”

 What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean? “Hey, look, if you didn’t like that, I’m really, _really_ sor…”

 “No, I liked it.” Okay. Then what was that weird remark just about? “Honestly. If I hadn’t liked it, we both wouldn’t be standing here now. In fact, me liking it is kind of the root of the entire problem. In a way. Sort of.”

 Something is really wrong here. He got the glare and the annoyance, because yes, she has a name and he really should start using it instead of the damn nickname but he doesn’t… really get the slightly desperate tone that crept into her voice when she told him she liked making out with him. And the rambling at the end of her speech, _what_ was that about? She also doesn’t look defiant or annoyed anymore, more like a tortoise ready to crawl into her shell, with her arms crossed in front of her chest and her shoulders hunched against the cold.

 The cold. Fuck. He’s an ass. “Hey, uh, should we maybe get back inside and get your coat first or something?”

 She shakes her head, a bit of that defiance being back. She still stays hunched, though. “No, I’m fine. The _cold_ really isn’t the problem here.”

 Oh for fuck’s sake. “Then what _is_? Seriously, can you please just spell it out because I honestly have no fucking idea what the _hell_ is going on.”

 He expects her… He doesn’t know what he expects her to do. He just knows it wasn’t “repeatedly opening her mouth but not nothing coming out, then retreating even more in her shell, then covering her face with her hands, then looking upwards and taking a _really_ deep breath” but that’s what she does. Before, and that’s the weirdest thing, she moves her hands to her midriff, spreads her hands across her abdomen and then stretches the blouse tight. The part that covers her abdomen. Her abdomen that suddenly doesn’t look as tight and flat as it did when he bend down to kiss it in that hot July night.

 He blinks. And then is able to utter only two words. “Oh. Fuck.”

 “Yeah,” she says in a weird tone and crosses her arms in front of her chest again, “that’s one way to put it.” He… still hasn’t fully grasped what just happened but… she’s pregnant. _That’s_ what just happened. She’s pregnant and… “I swear to God, if you ask me any variation of “But _how_?” I’m going to hit you really, _really_ hard. You’re a goddamn adult, you should really _know_ how this works.”

 Uh. Yeah. Uh. “I uh I do,” he hears himself stammer. But, “You did say you were on the pill, though.” It’s true. She did.

 She rolls her eyes. “Yeah. And I was. And that’s why I learned about this when I was about thirteen weeks along.” Huh? “I went to my OB/GYN to renew my prescription, it was time for my six-months standard exam, and next thing I know she tells me I don’t need a prescription and didn’t I have any symptoms?”

 He can’t help it. He just have to blink again, a little startled. “Symptoms?”

 It makes her make that little “ugh” sound she seems to like to make whenever she thinks someone is being particularly stupid. Or maybe she just makes them when she thinks _he_ is being particularly stupid. “Yeah, you know, the usual. Nausea, abdominal pain, cravings… I didn’t have any of that. Apparently, according to my OB/GYN, I’m some kind of medical miracle.” She rubs her arms and he remembers that for anyone not from Maine or the Mid-West, forty degrees is pretty damn cold. He starts to take off his hoodie. “Tom, what are you doing?”

 “Making sure you don’t freeze to death, that’s what I’m doing.” Okay, _maybe_ that was exaggerating it just a _little_ but she _looks_ like she’s cold. Or, more accurately, like someone who’s cold but tries to hide it. He holds out the hoodie to her. “Here, do yourself a favor and put that on.”

 She just eyes it like it might be poisonous. “I told you, I’m fine. I’m not putting that on.”

 He gives her a deadpan look. “It’s because it’s got the Falcons logo on it, isn’t it?”

 “No, it’s because you’re patronizing me and treating me like I’m some delicate flower just because I’m pregnant.” No, that actually hadn’t been on his mind. It’s weird, but it’s the truth. It still hasn’t even really registered in his head that she’s pregnant _holy hell she’s pregnant she’s going to have a baby she’s going to have his baby she…_ “Tom? Tom, are you okay?”

 He shakes his head and he’s almost positive that his head was just literally spinning or maybe that was the ground beneath his feet but _something_ was _definitely_ spinning. “I’m… fine. I just… why didn’t you… why didn’t you _say_ something?”

 Because that’s what it comes down to, isn’t it? That she knew about this since she was thirteen weeks along which must have been by the end of September and that was _two months_ ago.

 She hugs herself again. “I uh…”

 “Two months! You knew about _two months_ ago!” He hadn’t wanted to yell at her. Really, he hadn’t. It’s just that for some reason, he _just_ realized that the girl he had a one-night stand with and whom he could have contacted at any point in the last five, almost six months and that _could have contacted him_ at some point in those months is _having a baby_ , and that this is _his_ baby. “You could have fucking told me _two fucking months ago_.”

 She flinches. She honest to God flinches and suddenly looks very small and very young and not at all like that super-smart, if a little introvert Marine he met in July and who intrigued him enough that he would rather spend the night with her than any of his friends and that wouldn’t get out of his head even after five months.

 He feels like the shittiest person on Earth right now. Maybe in the entire Milky Way. He should know, he’s been _all around_ the fucking Milky Way in the last couple of months. He gives her a helpless shrug. “I’m… sorry, Kid. Maureen. I’m sorry, Maureen. I just… I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I’m sorry.”

 Avoiding his eyes, she nods, slowly, then says, “Apology accepted.” She doesn’t tell him “it’s fine”, and he deserved that. Because whatever else happened, his temper getting the best of him in this moment _wasn’t_ fine. He’s an idiot, most of the time, but he knows _that_.

 He still feels helpless as fuck. “I…”

 She takes a deep breath and now that he knows what’s going on, he can’t help noticing that her blouse isn’t voluminous enough to _fully_ hide the belly – _how_ did he miss that in the first place? – and it’s weird to see it. “And I hope you’re happy now, but you’re right.” He’s almost grateful for her taking his attention away from that belly. “It’s really pretty fucking cold without a coat.”

 There’s a smile on her face. It’s so small, it’s almost indiscernible but he can see it in her eyes. Her eyes that still manage to shine bright green in the light of the street lamps. Her eyes that even followed him into his sleep for five months straight. He tries a small smile of his own. “You want the hoodie? Even with the Falcons logo?”

 There’s a small laugh and he likes the sound of it. A _lot_. “Yes, please. Even with the Falcons logo.”

 The truth is: all he wants to do, if he’s being honest with himself, deep down, is to swaddle her in that hoodie, hug her, kiss her on her forehead, maybe even touch that belly. But he’s not _that much_ of a moron, so all he really does is hand her the balled up hoodie and try not to glance to overtly when she puts up her arms to put it on and the blouse stretches again.

 And then not to tell her just _how good_ she looks in his hoodie. She does. He doesn’t know how she does it but she looks so fucking hot in his oldest, most favorite Falcons sweater that he has severe difficulties not to kiss her and pull her into his car and drive her to her place to do what they did in July all over again on the spot.

 Instead, he tries to be sensible. “So… you’re keeping it?”

 That just makes her rolls her eyes again. “I’m twenty-two weeks pregnant, _yes_ , I’m keeping it, Tom.”

 Oh Jesus, he’s not _that_ dumb. “No, that’s not… I meant that you’re not… I mean, _are_ you…”

 “Giving it up to adoption?” He nods, mutely. “No, I’m not giving it up for adoption. Giving _her_ up for adoption.”

 Her. It’s a girl. She’s having a daughter. _He’s_ having a daughter.

 Once again, he finds himself unable to say something. It’s just… too much. It’s not like he didn’t want to have kids. It’s that he hadn’t wanted them _right now_. That he had wanted them at some point far off in the future, when he would be ready to trade in serving at the frontlines and risking his life on an everyday basis for a desk, regular work schedules, and boredom. Because yes, he told her that boring is immensely underrated and he meant that, it’s just that he still isn’t very good at it. He’s _terrible_ at it, and he’d probably break having to work at a desk. He wants to tell her all that but somehow, he can’t get his mouth to work. He can’t even get his fucking _head_ to work.

 “Tom?” she asks and there’s real concern in her eyes now. “I’m sorry. I know I screwed up. You’re right, I should have told you earlier.” Damn right she should have but that would just be kicking at someone who’s already down and he doesn’t do that. Whatever his faults are, he doesn’t do _that_. “It’s just that… I had a hard time wrapping my head around it. It took me almost two weeks to fully realize what just happened and what it all means. For fuck’s sake, I’d already started to _show_ at that point and…”

 It’s not a really conscious decision but when he sees her like that, almost disappearing into his hoodie, looking as confused and rattled as she must have when she first heard the news, all he can do is open his arms and huskily tell her, “C’me here, Kid.”

 He half expects her to tell him once again that she has a name or flat out refusing to move but to his amazement, she doesn’t even hesitate and steps into his arms. She doesn’t hug him, just keeps her arms to herself but she lets him envelop her and tell her, “’s gonna be alright. No idea how but it’s gonna be alright.”

 It makes her laugh, a strange strangled sound halfway up to a sob and he feels her crowd closer. “This is the _worst_ clusterfuck ever.”

 Nah, he’s sure it’s not. He’s been in a lot of clusterfucks over his career in Black Ops and even more of them back at the SGC and he’s pretty sure he’s got a good data basis to judge how bad it is and this isn’t even close to the worst he encountered. But yeah, she’s not him. She’s a junior company grade in her mid-twenties who got pregnant by a field grade working God knows where because he was too stupid to just put on a damn condom, having to explain to her superior how she managed to suddenly become non-deployable and who suddenly has to come up with a family care plan and whole lot of other shit she probably didn’t think she had to care about before she turned thirty or something.

 For _her_ , this _is_ the worst clusterfuck ever. He hugs her a little tighter, and tells her, hoping to keep his tone light, “Getting out of clusterfucks alive and reasonably well is what Special Tactics Officers do for a living, Kid.”

 He can feel her shake again, this time _definitely_ with laughter. Then she looks up, gently taking a small step back that tells him that his arms are probably not needed anymore or at least that she wants to give him the impression that they aren’t and he doesn’t like the feeling of it but he lets her go. “You realize that I’m not some damn damsel in distress who needs saving, right, Tom?”

 Well.

 Yeah.

 Yeah, okay, fine, he does. He fully admits that he’d like to do nothing more than to save her but after all, she’s still a damn Marine. She might not look like one but she wouldn’t have made it through OCS and TBS if she didn’t have what it takes.

 He nods, avoiding a sigh. “But I _can_ do my part, right?”

 She nods, not avoiding a sigh. “Yeah. As soon as we have figured out what your part is gonna be, you can do it.” So… that means that there’s gonna be _some_ place in her baby’s life for him, right? “And… can we… can we go back in, please? It’s not getting any warmer and I’m afraid Anna will organize a search party if we’re not back in the next couple minutes.”

 She totally would because Anna’s what they like to call “the mom friend”. He grins. “Fair enough.” And let’s all be honest, the last thing he had to eat was some stale muffin at some nameless Pentagon City cafeteria _hours_ ago. “Also, I’m just really damn hungry.”

 “Yeah,” she says and grins, putting a hand squarely on her abdomen while slowly walking with him back to the front door, “this one here is, too.”

 He likes that look on her, in his hoodie, her hand openly on what she’s probably been trying to hide, the faint outline of her twenty-two week belly against the worn out fabric of the sweater. He tells himself not to get too used to liking it because they don’t really know each other and they’re probably not going to end up as more than two people co-parenting an accidental child and the crash after flying too high on unrequited expectations would just be even harder.

 “Tom?” He takes great care not to shake his head, to visibly shake off the stupid thoughts he just had about her in his sweater or shirt or bed or _life_ and he seems to be lucky because she just keeps on talking, “Anna… Anna is the only who knows here. Can we… keep it that way? Just for tonight?”

 Yeah. He gets that. He’s definitely not in the mood to explain why there’s a Marine here pregnant with their child, when everyone knew that neither of them was seeing anyone and what it’s all supposed to mean and probably a lot of disapproval about getting a company grade pregnant just like that from his Academy buddies, even though they’re not in the same chain of command.

 He nods. “For as long as you like, Kid. Maureen.”

 She gives him another smile, a slightly crooked one. “God help me, but I think I’m kinda warming up to it.”

 “Yeah, I do grow on people.” She rolls her eyes. “Just give it some more time.” And then, just because he really feels the need to say it out loud, make it _perfectly_ clear, he stops, getting serious again. “We’ll find a way, Kid. I’m not sure how yet but we’ll get there. One way or the other, we’ll find a way. I promise.”

 It’s probably stupid to promise something like that but she seems to appreciate it anyway, just giving him a brave little smile and nodding and then taking up walking back to the house and he takes it as a sign that things will work out somehow, some way in the future. It’s not gonna be easy, he knows that, but that doesn’t mean it’s gonna be _impossible_. They don’t hate each other, and she seems to like him, for some strange twist of fate, after all and for now, that’s enough for him.

 They never even do realize the weird looks everyone throws them when they walk back into the dining room, Maureen still wearing his Falcons hoodie and he a weird little smile on his face.

III

 The third time they meet, it’s in Falls Church again, just not in that medium sized military family home. It’s in a different part of town, in a small apartment building, right on Christmas Eve. It’s already dark outside, and most of the town is deserted, the government employees populating it all having fled to their respective home states for the holidays. It’s cold outside and still way too Christmassy, even a little further away from the town center but Maureen Reece still likes the lights outside and that’s why she’s sitting in the little window seat her apartment came with, reading, the fireplace lit and a fire crackling in her back, when her doorbell rings.

 She doesn’t really react at first because the only person ringing at her door right now would be her landlady with some new excuse to nose around or give her some “helpful” pregnancy advice or just generally make a nuisance of herself, and right now, she’s just not in the mood for any of that. Especially because somewhere in her landlady’s diatribe would definitely be the words “you poor dear, all alone on Christmas, and _pregnant_ at that”. For a Christmas Eve, the day so far hasn’t been so bad, actually. She’ll do fuck all to change that.

 So she just stays put, in her window seat, _The Order of the Phoenix_ in one hand – because really, the only thing Christmas is good for is rereading books she loves – and the other gently rubbing circles on her belly so the kid inside will calm down a little and give her some peace.

 Unfortunately, whoever is outside _won’t_ give her peace and there’s a second ring. She still holds her ground. It took her hours to find a position in which she could sit reasonably comfortably without her back hurting too bad or her legs cramping or her belly being in the way, and she’s not just giving up without a fight.

 There’s a third ring, though, _and_ a knock that _doesn’t_ sound like her landlady and this is when she sighs, swears under her breath and disentangles herself from the blanket in her lap. She even takes advantage of the fact that right now, no one can see her and takes a moment to work the worst kinks out of the small of her back before walking over to her door.

 She’s really not sure if she doesn’t regret it after all when she finally opens it.

 Out in the hall, there’s Tom, telling everyone “I’m from Maaaine!” by not even wearing a coat over his hoodie – not a Falcons one, this time, because believe it or not, it’s _her_ wearing the one from Thanksgiving and she only realizes that now – with a duffle in his hand, a grin on his face that’s probably supposed to look all charming and insufferable but only manages to get as far as slightly insecure and a weirdly weak, “Surprise?” on his lips.

 That’s… not what she had been expecting. Then again, this man seems to have a disconcerting knack for doing things she wasn’t expecting and turning up at places right out of the blue and on the last minute. She kind of probably _should_ have expected something like this to happen.

 She’s not really sure what to say to that and thankfully, he takes that responsibility away from her by blinking and then directing his gaze slightly downwards. “Huh. I’ve been wondering where _that_ went. I kinda missed it.”

 That’s an… interesting way to start a conversation but her back is starting to bother her again and the kid is getting restless without her constantly rubbing those circles on her belly and she’s still a little too self-conscious to do that in front of Tom, even with them talking almost every day for the last four weeks. She’s not in the mood for idle chit-chat right now. “Tom, why are you here?”

 He tries to go for charming again. “Aw, come on, can’t a field grade just drop in on his favorite second lieutenant?” Well, at least he didn’t use the word “baby momma”. He tried that _once_ , three days after Thanksgiving when he called her for the first time. He _never_ made _that_ mistake again.

 In her head, she counts to ten, trying hard to ignore her back and her belly and her feet and everything that’s been bothering her today. “Tom?”

 She’s not sure if the obliviousness in his eyes is genuine or just pretend. “Yes?”

 Fuck it. “Tom!”

 “What?” What? _What_? “Oh come on, Kid, entire East Coast north of New York’s been snowed in, there was no way I could go to Maine, no one knows when the airports open again and a friend over at Peterson owed me a favorite and let me hop on a transfer to Anacostia.”

 Something in that doesn’t add up. To her knowledge, there are practically no overlaps between aircraft stationed at Peterson and aircraft stationed at Anacostia, no tenant units over at Bolling that could work, either, she can’t see any scenario in which someone would have to ferry aircraft from Peterson to Anacostia and… no, something’s wrong with that. He’s hiding something.

 It’s true, however that north of New York, all airports were closed as of about 1400. He’s probably telling the truth about _that_ … and then it hits her. Yes, he _is_ hiding something – for example how he really got from Colorado Springs to wherever he touched down in the D.C. metro area so fast when she bets that all commercial flights were fully booked, probably even overbooked – but something, some weird hunch, tells her that it’s not actually something nefarious but something having to do with his job. His super-secret “can’t tell you or I’d have to shoot you” job.

 She rolls her eyes and steps aside, inviting him in.

 He grins, this time genuinely relieved and puts his duffel on the floor by the door, throwing a look around and going with probably the most impolite thing he could have found on such short notice, “Yeah, wow, so festive in here. You can really feel the holiday spirit.” She glares at him. He gives her a slightly sheepish look. “Guess you weren’t joking about not being a Christmas kind of person, then.”

 “Yeah, guess I wasn’t,” she can’t help replying with a slightly acerbic taste to her tone. It’s not like she hid it or something? And they even had three Skype sessions with actual video of her place. It’s not like he hadn’t had amble opportunity to see for himself before?

 He walks past her sofa, making a straight beeline for the open kitchen and _what_ is he doing? “What _is_ that about, anyway?”

 Huh? “What is _what_ about?”

 Apparently, the fridge was his target and he’s zeroing in on it like some kind of fighter pilot in an F-15, not even stopping when throwing a “That Christmas hate thing. The fuck is that about, Kid?” over his shoulder, before rudely just opening her fridge and nosing around.

 “It’s a long story. And no, I’m not going to tell you.” There are more pressing things on hand, anyway. “And what the _fuck_ are you doing in my kitchen?”

 He keeps driving her crazy by rummaging around in her fridge. “Trying to see if there is _anything_ edible in here.”

 What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean? “ _Everything_ in there is edible. Tom, leave my fucking fridge alone!”

  _Finally_ , he turns around, shutting the fridge with a disapproving face. “Hate to disagree, Kid. Are there any grocery shops around here?” What… “And I don’t mean that Walmart shit, I mean _actual_ grocery shops.” The… did he just insult her neighborhood? Her taste in food? Supermarkets? She’s a fucking second lieutenant, those don’t get paid enough to live in reasonably nice places _and_ get to shop at Whole Foods regularly. “You know what, never mind. I survived the damn Academy food, I can damn well find a good grocery story _anywhere_.”

 That’s _enough_. “Tom! What the _fuck_ is going on with you?”

 He starts to say something, then seems to realize that once again, he was being an idiot about something. He gives her an apologetic look, then takes a moment to catch his breath and finally says, at least a little calmed down, “There’s not much in the way of onboard catering on a C-130 and I haven’t eaten since… well, a couple hours ago, I think and… I’m just really hungry.” Yes, well, there’s some takeout leftovers in her fridge, some salad, cheese… “And I just bet you’re hungry, too and you don’t really have the right stuff in your fridge.” _What the fuck is that supposed to mean_? She’s had it with him now and… “Trust me, Kid, I don’t know much about anything but I do know stuff about food. Give me thirty minutes, an hour tops and I guarantee you, you’re going to like me a whole lotta more.”

 She frowns at him. And then remembers that he sometimes talked about food in err interesting details in those calls in the last couple weeks and that when he told Anna that her turkey was really, really good she had just grinned at him and told him that she appreciates the compliment, especially if it’s coming from him and… And of course those damn pancakes he left her after their little Fourth of July celebration. Those _damn_ pancakes. She thinks she knows what this is about. _Someone_ is _dying_ to go all Paul Bocuse on her right now.

 Oh _fine_. She doesn’t say anything at first, just gives him the raised index finger – a bit like that gesture you use to train a puppy to turn its attention on you – and takes the few steps back to the door, grabbing something from the small tray close to it, then holds it up. “ _No_ stupid shit, at _all_.”

 A grin slowly spreads across his face when he recognizes the object in her hands as her car keys. “Scout’s Honor,” he drawls and all but sprints towards her, taking them from her hands and responding to her dead serious look by trying to match it and _almost_ succeeding. “Seriously, swear it on my oak leaves. No reckless driving, no stupid shit, be back in an hour tops. I promise.”

 She just gives him a resigned look, and his answer to that is… _nearly_ kissing her on the cheek before leaving her place slightly awkwardly. It was just a small motion but he _was_ going to spontaneously kiss her on the cheek before remembering that this is not the kind of relationship they have, her being six months pregnant with his child notwithstanding.

 “Your father,” she hears herself telling her belly, “is a very strange man.”

 In the end, it takes him about forty-five minutes. She uses them to first try to understand what the fuck just happened, then simply gives up on that and tries to figure out why she suspected his job being behind that weird story of getting from Peterson to Anacostia didn’t add up. She gets as far as narrowing it down to little things in those phone and Skype conversations they had in the four weeks since Thanksgiving – details that didn’t match up, questions he would simply omit to answer, some days when he would only get as far as asking her about her day and about how the kid was doing before announcing that he might need some sleep, after all, sounding _bone_ tired. Yeah. That and that one time she didn’t hear from him for three days and when he was back trying to back out of the Skype video chat first and only coming online when she told him she had new ultrasound pictures she wanted to share… and sporting a pretty ugly laceration across half his forehead he would only explain with “an accident at work”, looking like something really bad had happened despite trying to make light of it.

 Deep Space Telemetry her fucking _ass_ , she thinks.

 Shortly after that, he comes back with several bags full of food – when she asks him how long he intends to stay, he doesn’t miss a beat, just tells her, matter-of-factly, “For as long as you’ll have me, of course.” – and moves right into her kitchen, sorting everything in record speed into her fridge and then starting to lay out ingredients methodically out on the counter next to the stove.

 By now, she’s kind of fascinated – she has only ever seen people do this on cooking shows or in behind-the-scenes documentaries on fancy restaurants – and moves to sit on one of the bar stools on the other side of the counter he’s working on. He works fast and clean, as if he learned to do this at least semi-professionally at some point and even manages to be witty and entertaining while talking to her, too.

 He talks and makes spaghetti alla puttanesca – “No anchovies, just this time, can’t ever be careful enough, right?” – with an effortless levity she’d never have associated with him, and she doesn’t even realize that he somehow manages to put her at ease enough for her to take up her belly-rubbing to calm down the child inside of her without even realizing that she’s doing it for the first five minutes or so. It’s only when she notices a fleeting questioningly raised eyebrow that she realizes what she’s doing and hopes that her blush isn’t too visible. “I’m… sorry. I know it’s kind of annoying but she’s got this thing with jumping around and driving me crazy and this seems to be the only thing calming her down. I mean, I can stop if you…”

 “How long has she been doing this?” That’s… an interesting question and she kind of feels embarrassed because yes, of course she’s been telling him about the baby’s development, about how she’s growing, if she’s healthy… but she has kind of… glossed over the not so pleasant aspects of the pregnancy. She’s lucky alright, having been spared most first trimester symptoms of pregnancy, and she still has a comparatively easy pregnancy but that doesn’t mean it’s all sugar and spice, blahblahblah. She just hadn’t considered talking to him about _her_ end of it, and his short frown tells her he finds that let’s say puzzling at least.

 She bites her lip. “Four, maybe five weeks.”

 Yeah, she can see the exact moment when it registers with him what that means. “Oh hell, she was doing that on Thanksgiving, too, wasn’t she?”

 Well… “Yes?” Why did she just phrase that as a question? The baby _had_ been doing that on Thanksgiving, right from arriving at Anna and Charlie’s to coming back home. When she stood there outside with Tom, having what was one of the most difficult conversations in her entire life, inside of her the baby had been somersaulting, kicking, boxing with abandon. Not to mention all the other small nuisances of late second trimester  pregnancy.

 He looks at her, frowning again, then says, sounding strangely serious, “You can tell me stuff like that, you know that, right?”

 Okay, then. So much for keeping the personal stuff to herself. Now that she told him _one_ thing, he’s gonna want to know _all_ things. She tries to sound reasonable and matter-of-fact when she tells him, “Look, it was just… I mean, that’s just not the kind of relationship we… I…”

 “I’m not saying you _have_ to. Just that you can, if you want.” That sounds amazingly sensible for someone who likes to style himself as irreverent, slightly immature and not taking anything seriously. “And… you know that I didn’t come here just because of the little one, right?”

 It’s her turn to frown. “I thought you came here because Maine was off the table due to snow storms.”

 Did he just growl? Or at least sort of groan frustrated? “Dammit, Kid. I could have stayed in The Springs, if had just been about no flights going to Maine.” Huh? “Do I _really_ have to spell this out? Come on, you’re a really, really smart person, do the math.” What he doesn’t say is “please _don’t_ make me spell it out”. It takes her a moment to realize this but when she does, it’s really easy to spot. He doesn’t want to tell her because he’s afraid… afraid of what?

 “Tom?” She knows she shouldn’t make him. But for some really stupid reason she needs to hear it to believe it. “Why did you come here?”

 This time it was definitely a growl. Or at least a very clear sound of displeasure. And busying himself with cleaning up his workspace, probably so he doesn’t have to look at her when he answers her. “Isn’t it obvious?”

 She should leave this alone. She really should. But some little devil is riding her right now, and maybe she’s also tired of this weird _thing_ they have, this half-baked, neither here nor there excuse for a relationship, _any_ relationship. She sounds way more serious and small when she replies. “Not to me, Tom.”

 He still keeps rummaging around, putting away things, wiping off the counter and for a moment, it drives her crazy enough that she considers reaching across and making it stop but then she recognizes it. It’s some sort of procrastination, of trying to gather up the courage to say it out loud and she leaves him that time. She gets rewarded when he’s done, leaning on the counter with both hands and finally looking at her again. “I came here to spend time with you, Kid. Not just anyone. You. And if you want me to leave…”

 “No,” she hears herself say, a little too quiet for comfort, a little too surprised at herself, “I don’t want you to leave. That is,” and she really, _really_ hopes that this will steer the conversation away from the slightly uncomfortable, far too serious, far too intimate turn the conversation has taken, “if you’re okay with sleeping on that couch.”

 It’ll be too short for him. Not much, but he won’t fit. That damn man is tall and has incredibly long legs, and she feels a little sorry for him, even though he snorts and says, “What’s wrong with that couch? Looks perfectly fine to me.”

 It makes her laugh a little. Okay, that’s settled then. “We’ll see what you think tomorrow morning.”

 He laughs at that and it gives her a weird and warm and fuzzy feeling that has nothing to do with the kid still rummaging around in her belly and everything with the fact that Thomas Moore is a really attractive man. She’s been thinking that the entire evening, actually ever since she met him for the first time but laughing brings it out in him like nothing else. It takes away that weird air of being settled with past experiences that did something to him and of having to keep secrets from her and just leaves the man he might have been before whatever happened to make him think that being boring was an underrated quality.

 As if on cue, it’s finally dinner time after that and they eat sitting at the counter and the spaghetti are really, really good even without the anchovies and the conversation is good, too and thankfully not as difficult as it was earlier and yes, there’s something strange in the air, something loaded, something complicated but as long as they concentrate on friendly, light banter and stay away from the more personal stuff, it’s at least easy to ignore. Probably not for long, but at least for tonight.

 It’s only when she nearly falls asleep on the sofa next to him when they watch “Miracle on 34th Street” – at his request, and cajoling and begging, too and only under protest from her side – that she comes to the stunning conclusion that this is probably the first Christmas Eve in her entire life that hasn’t been miserable. In fact, it’s been kinda… _enjoyable_ and _nice_ and _comfortable_. Sort of… like what an actual Christmas Eve is supposed to be like.

 Huh, she thinks pleasantly astonished before drifting off with her head on his shoulder, figure that.

IV

 The fourth holiday they spend together is the first one when they don’t meet unexpectedly. It’s New Year’s Eve, naturally at Anna and Charlie’s. They’re back from Connecticut, and like every year, Anna felt the great need to throw a party that is _nothing_ like the parties her in-laws – super rich Fortune 500 WASP DAR East Coast royalty with a dozen homes around the country and those are just the ones they use on a somewhat regular basis, not counting those that are “investments” here in the US and all over the world – throw. Her New Year’s Eve bash is loud and bubbly and boozy and invitations are thrown out on the basis of “Wait, you’re still here? Come around then!”

 Which is why, of _course_ , Thomas Moore and Maureen Reece have to go, despite Maureen not being keen on having to present what can’t be hidden by no stretch of imagination anymore. _Stretch_ being the operative word here. She takes over an hour to find _something_ in her wardrobe that will at least make it a little harder to guess how far along she is when he finally breaks and tells her to fuck anyone who might be judging her and just wear something she feels nice and comfortable in. She ends up going with a stretchy, skintight dress that stops a little above her knees and does exactly _nothing_ to hide her twenty-seven-week bump and which has the unfortunate and hopefully unintended side effect of making him really hot and bothered.

 He tries to ignore it all the way over to the Williamsons’ place, reminding him that as she said it, that’s _not_ the kind of relationship they have. So far, their relationship consisted of a one-night stand, a _really_ awkward Thanksgiving evening, four weeks of Skype and phone calls in which he came close to telling her what _really_ happened at the SGC or on a mission that day a few times too often, and last week here in D.C.

  _Someone_ at the SGC had taken pity on him and his team – or maybe just on his team – and given them two weeks off over the holidays, so he hadn’t been in any rush to get back to The Springs and for some miracle, she let him stay at her place. She didn’t have to work either – nothing to do with her being pregnant and everything having to do with her boss _really_ being into Christmas and generally end of the year cheer, in her words – and somehow they managed to spend the week with each other and even have fun while doing it.

 Sure, there’d been that weird… _thing_ in the air he couldn’t put a name on but he’d been able to mostly ignore it while enjoying the novelty of an almost empty Washington D.C., what with all the government drones populating it being gone over the holidays. They’d decided to do the tourist thing, mostly because even though she’s been living in the D.C. metro area for a little over a year, she hadn’t gotten to see much more than a bit of Falls Church and Pentagon City. So it had been the Smithsonian and the Washington Monument and the National Zoo and the National Mall and even the White House and she’d probably have gone the full nine yards of D.C. sightseeing if the little one hadn’t put a spoke in the wheel of her plans time and again by reminding her of her late stage second trimester pregnancy. He’d still loved every damn minute of that damn week.

 He’s not sure if he’s going to love what’s bound to come in the next few minutes, though.

 They’ve arrived at the Williamsons’, and he finds a parking space close to the house, taking care _not_ to offer her his hand to help her out of the car and he likes to imagine that the look she just threw him is a look of appreciation. Even if she probably _could_ have used a _little_ help but she’s a Marine. By now, she doesn’t have to verbally remind him of that anymore because he’s starting to see it, anyway, six months pregnant or not.

 Right now, though… well. They’re on the sidewalk, right where the little path leads up to the Williamsons’ front steps and she looks _very_ much like she’d like nothing more than to turn around and walk straight back to the car. Okay. Time to be what Laura likes to call “socially not an idiot”. “Kid… we don’t have to go if you don’t want to.”

 She makes a face. “No, it’s fine. I mean, no, okay, it’s not fine but… I gotta get this over with at _some_ point, right?”

 No, she doesn’t. She doesn’t owe anyone a reveal or an explanation or a justification.

 But by now he knows that she’s smart enough to know that herself and telling her that would be insulting her considerable intelligence. So he foregoes that. “Okay. But anyone gives you crap, you signal for support. Don’t have me make this an order.”

 She snorts and gives him a stupid comedy salute. “Sir, yes, sir.” Yeah, that just serves to remind him to be grateful for the fact that at least they aren’t in the same chain of command. Everything would be so much shittier if they were. Small favors and all that.

 He sees her roll her eyes and guesses that she must have seen some of that realization mirrored on his face – she’s scary that way, he noticed – and he expects her to reassure him and he could have sworn that she was _going_ to… when she instead grabs her belly and grunts, sounding like she’s in actual pain, if even just for a moment. _Something_ in him takes over, some long ingrained “team member injured” emergency program… which she must have spotted because the next thing she does is simply shake her head and tell him, “It’s okay, Tom. Just a really heavy kick to where it hurts. I hate it when she does that but other than that, we’re both fine.”

 Okay. If she… if she says so. “Look, like I said, if you’d rather…”

 “I already told you, I’ll be fine,” she says and, as if to prove herself wrong, puts both her hands on the small of her back and stretches backwards, like she has done every time she needed to sit down for a while due to the strain on her back. And _every damn time_ , including now, all he’d wanted to do was move in and give her a back rub, just _something_ to make her feel better but like he said, like _she_ said, not the relationship they have. “Come on, time to charge that damn hill once and for all.”

 It makes him grin, thinking back to that “Band of Brothers” DVD marathon they had three days ago, because they’d both been in the mood to make fun of the Army and he found out that she does a really good impersonation of David Schwimmer impersonating Herbert Sobel. She’d fallen asleep on the sofa during “Bastogne” – she really seems to have a tendency to do that and he still wonders whether that is just the pregnancy or a regular occurrence with her – lying on her side, using his legs as a pillow and that had been an even better night than Christmas Eve.

 At the moment, she’s obviously determined to face this battle head on and marches towards the door and he dutifully follows. She rings even before he has fully made it up the steps and it’s Anna greeting them, first hugging Maureen and telling her she loves the dress – he does, too, but _probably_ for entirely different reasons – and then hugging him, because even after all those years, Anna is still the only one of his friends allowed to do that and she takes every opportunity to rub it in.

 She ushers them in and oh for _fuck’s_ sake, Evan Lorne is here _again_. Having to explain to Charlie would have been bad enough but having to explain this to _both_ of them is probably kind of the worst case. Or, no, wait. _That_ will be when Laura learns that he _didn’t_ tell her first and she learns about it _after_ Lorne and Williamson because she isn’t here due to her decision to use  up that one favor she had with one of the guys on the bridge of the _Prometheus_ to have them beam her to Maine and most probably didn’t want to get indebted to anyone for another not strictly business beam. She’d already given him hell for not using _his_ favors with the _Prometheus_ bridge officers to go to Maine _and_ not telling her where he chose to go instead but finding out that he’s going to be a father in about three months and not having been told about the _minute_ he learned about it will be a _lot_ worse.

 And look, there comes Evan Lorne, zeroing in on them with a clear “What the hell, Moore?” look on his face.

  _Fuck_.

 Maureen must have seen it, too because he can clearly spot the tortoise thing again. She’s not _actively_ doing it but there’s tension in her shoulders, her hands twitching by her side… yep, this is going to be bad. He _almost_ reaches out to gently steer her away or maybe grab her hand and just hold it or some other stupid shit that’s bound to get him even more in trouble but damn Lorne is too fast.

 “So,” he says and practically glares at him, “that’s an interesting development.”

 It’s that look Lorne always had when he nearly screwed up a project they had at the Academy or when everyone _suspected_ it was him who jeopardized everyone else’s academic success by being a lazy fuck – which, in truth, happened exactly _once_ and never again and no, it wasn’t pretty and he had deserved it – and for a moment, he feels pressured to simply open his mouth and spill it all out in an embarrassed, “Yes, it’s mine, yes, I was the stupid one, yes, I knocked up a girl in a one-night stand.”

 Luckily for him – and possibly her, too – he manages to get a grip on himself fast enough to make it look like he didn’t miss a beat and even add just the right amount of edge to his voice when he drawls, “Judge her and you’re dead, Lorne.”

 Lorne rolls his eyes. “I’m not judging _her_ , you idiot. I’m judging _you_.”

 She’s _this_ close to remind them both that she’s standing _right here_ , thank you very much, he can see that clearly. And then she moves to surprise him, anyway. “The same applies to Major Moore.” And herself, too, apparently. She blinks. Then adds a belated, “Sir. The same… applies to Major Moore, sir.”

 Oh God, he can’t believe she just did that. He can’t believe she just told her friend’s brother – a field grade she barely knows – that he’s dead if he even _dares_ to judge her baby’s father. And, from the look of it, she can’t believe that, either. Embarrassment catches up with her _really_ fast. “I… shit, I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to…”

 “You’re a Marine, aren’t you?” She nods mutely. “I guess I walked right into that one, then.” Huh? Why is Lorne _smiling_ at her now? And his damn Lady Killer Lorne smile, at that. _Ass_ hole. “Congratulations, Lieutenant.” _He_ doesn’t get a smile. Only a dead-pan look. “Tom.”

 Thankfully, he doesn’t have to grind out an undeserved thank you because she moves to shake the hand Lorne offers her and somehow manages to weakly smile back and say, “Thank you, sir,” and look like she means it. He has a nagging suspicion, that between him and her, Maureen Reece is the one who’ll go places, whatever she chooses as her career path.

 Lorne nods at them. “If you’ll excuse me, I have to go and warn Charlie not to make the same mistake I just made.” And with that, he’s off and… is he _laughing_? He is, goddammit. Damn Evan Lorne is walking away _shaking_ with laughter and _what_ is there to laugh about?

 She doesn’t seem to get it, either, turning to him, looking clearly confused. “Tom… what was that about?”

 He has a slight inkling what might be the answer but right now, he’s too pissed off at his Academy buddy to give a coherent answer and instead leaves it at, “Never mind the bullshit field grade, Kid.”

 She looks at him quizzically. “Correct me if I’m wrong but… I thought you were friends?”

 He shrugs. “Sure. But that was still a bullshit move.”

 In truth, he probably would have reacted the same if it had been Lorne who’d knocked up a one-night stand he’d chatted up at his sister’s party. Sort of. He’d _sort of_ have reacted the same. There definitely would have been more mocking involved. Out of earshot of the girls, of course and… he’ll definitely always stay in her earshot for the reminder of the party. Being mocked by Evan Lorne _and_ being reproached by Charlie Williamson at the same time is brutal, and he’s not in the mood for brutal tonight.

 “Someday,” she says, shaking her head, obviously trying hard not to look amused, “you’ll really have to tell me how you and your field grade buddies became friends.”

 He’d actually love to tell her right now, preferably at her place, the fireplace lit, dinner just over, maybe her feet in his lap or something, and that’s really weird because in this… _thing_ that they have, _she_ is definitely the introvert. Until now, he hasn’t met a party he didn’t like, so that sudden impulse to get out of here and spend the evening alone with her is kinda… off-putting.

 Hoping that it’s just a fluke, he covers up his confusion with smirking at her. “Yeah, see, I don’t share the Academy stories with just _anyone_ …” She punches him. In the arm, yes. But she _punched_ him. _Hard_. “Damn, Kid, talk about cruel and unusual punishment!”

 She rolls her eyes. “You Chair Force guys really can’t take anything.” They both know it’s not true but to her credit, she has kept the interservice rivalry ribbing to a minimum and mostly hasn’t let him provoke her, so he’ll let that one slide. “Come on, I need something to drink. And the kid is driving me crazy with somersaults again so I _definitely_ need to find some food.”

 The funny thing is, it took her until this week to work out that the little one is usually bothering her like that when she’s hungry or at least that having something to eat will buy her maybe an hour or two of peace – which says a lot about her eating habits but he’s been wise enough not to comment on it… much – so he makes it his mission to find her something to eat while ignoring the impulse to _also_ make sure that she has a place to sit, is hydrated and doesn’t get bothered by anyone because that would just result in being called a hovering mother-hen at best and a paternalist overprotective idiot at worst.

 He kind of succeeds – whoever made these chicken wings really needs a refresher course in proper seasoning, and he really hopes they aren’t Anna’s – and can’t believe that he’s finding his little introvert lieutenant standing in the doorway to the crushed living room, animatedly talking to one of Anna’s military wives friends.

 Also, she’s not _his_ introvert lieutenant. _Not_ the kind of relationship they’re having. He can wish for that all he wants, but that doesn’t make it true and God, he really needs to get that into his thick skull once and for all.

 So he just walks over, barging into a conversation about the physics PhD Anna’s friend just got, and shame on him for thinking they’d _obviously_ be talking about something kid or pregnancy related or other and handing her the plate of chicken wings and discovering that he’s absolutely not needed in this conversation. Bummer, he thinks, and resigns himself to the fate of being mocked and dressed down mercilessly by his two Academy buddies. Might as well get it over with. If only he didn’t have such a hard time controlling his impulse to sneak a kiss on her cheek before going in search of his two executors.

 In the end, it’s exactly as bad as he expected it to be but he survives it and at some point, she finally graciously allows him to take part in the conversations she has and he gets to admire her in all her smart, witty glory and has a really hard time of not telling her that he doesn’t want a _thing_ anymore with her but a real, honest relationship in which he can rub her feet without getting awkward about it first or just drop a kiss on the top of her head whenever he feels like it or in which she doesn’t feel like she has to hide how she feels from him.

 Maybe that’s why, when midnight is closing in, he tries to stay the hell away from her and ends up, against his better judgement _right_ next to her in the mudroom, her leaning against the staircase leading to the second floor, him standing in front of her, just outside the edge of the biggest crowd when suddenly everyone starts counting down from ten.

 He tries, in vain, to use those last ten seconds to somehow bring some distance between them, or at least he _would_ have tried if he hadn’t been rooted to his spot by some supernatural force – he’d call himself an idiot if, you know, he hadn’t seen stuff like that happen _literally_ right in front of his eyes, _multiple_ times – and suddenly, the ten seconds are over and everyone’s cheering and _damn_ New Year’s kisses.

 And _damn_ him for standing in front of her and looking at her and searching for _something_ in her face and only finding it when she pushes off from the wall behind her and stands up on her tiptoes to give him a kiss on his lips, light as a feather and looks at him with searching eyes herself, probably looking for the same thing he has been looking for.

 Oh God.

 How could he _miss_ that all this time? An entire week of spending nearly every waking minute with her and he _still_ needed her to hit him over the head with it. He leans in, still hesitating, still searching until she gives him a nod, tiny but firm and he finally goes all in.

 A little insecure, a little haltingly at first but then she takes the initiative, cupping his face with her hands and drawing him with her until she leans against the wall again and he braces himself with his hands against it left and right from her because _holy hell_ this is a really, _really_ good kiss, even beating the making-out session outside of her place last summer. And she keeps kissing him and one of his hands wanders to her belly and dimly he realizes that this is the first time ever that he touches it.

 She doesn’t complain, though, just keeps kissing him with an abandon that tells him that she’s probably been waiting to do this for just as long as he has. Shit, this is good, this is really… wait, why did she stop? She’s still close to him, close enough to get back to kissing but she smiles at him and he has discovered that her smiles do something to him, something he really likes and then she says, “Happy New Year, Tom,” and God, yes, fucking Happy fucking New Year to him.

 He grins back and he can see that she likes it and she still lets him touch her belly and well, “Happy New Year, Kid.” There’s a little laugh from her and he finally gets to do what he’d honestly been wanting to do the entire evening, ever since she came out of her bedroom in that dress and that’s bending down and burying his head in the crook of her neck, putting kisses there and feel her bury her hand in his hair and thankfully, everyone else is still engaged in celebrating the beginning of 2004 because well, they’re kind of making out like teenagers again.

 Like really, really horny teenagers. Ah, fuck it. “Hey,” he says, before kissing her again and only breaking to add, “you wanna get out of this place?”

 She leans forward a little, her belly bumping against him, and her drawling close to his ear, “I thought you’d never ask.”

 Okay, that’s it. That’s all he needs to hear. He gives her another thorough kiss and then goes to grab her coat and get the fuck out of this place and he really hopes Anna forgives him for bailing from one of her parties _again_ but God, there’s a very different kind of New Year’s celebration waiting for him back at Maureen’s place and he sure as hell isn’t going to pass _that_ one up.

 In the end, they’re so keen to get back home that they don’t even see Anna noticing their flight and grinning and congratulating herself for _finally_ succeeding with her plan. Happy New Year, indeed.

V

 This is not, in fact, the fifth holiday they spend with each other because between that and New Year’s Eve lie New Year’s Day and Martin Luther King Day and Easter and Memorial Day but that is not the point. The point is that this the Fourth of July 2004, exactly a year after they meet for the first time, and they don’t spend it in Washington, D.C.

 They spend it in Colorado Springs where she moved in February after receiving a strange offer from an Air Force unit inside of Cheyenne Mountain, allegedly conducting Deep Space Telemetry of which he still swears that he has _nothing_ to do with it and accepting it, even though it resulted in their first _real_ fight.

 But the alternative would have been for one of them to resign their commission, give up their military career if they didn’t want to have a relationship and raise a child across the span of almost an entire continent, and neither of them had been ready for that. He’d relented, finally, when it had become clear that she would _not_ serve anywhere near the embarkation room level and when she promised to him that she would never, _never_ resort to any Big Dumb Heroics, should there be any dangerous shit happening on the lower levels. Even though both knew that promise will go out the window the moment another alien entity wants to conquer the Mountain because she’s a Marine and Marines don’t run from a fight, not even linguists.

 It’s been a weird seven months since their kiss on New Year’s Eve and since waking up on New Year’s Day with a blizzard raging outside and being nestled with her back against Tom’s chest, buried under the covers, his hand resting on her belly like it had been meant to be there from the beginning and realizing that this is what she missed, this what she had wanted with Tom all along.

 It’s been a weird seven months and it’s been wonderful and it’s been frightening. It’s been full of Skype and phone conversations in January before she packed up her stuff and moved west to Colorado and full of strange and sometimes overwhelming briefings and documents about _aliens being real_ and _interdimensional travel being a thing_ and finally knowing the stories behind all the scrapes and bruises and lacerations Tom brought home on a terrifyingly regular basis and finding a new family in this team of his, in Laura Greenspan and Simon DeLisle and starting a family of her own.

 Tom hadn’t been there when their daughter Philippa Marie Moore was born on St. Patrick’s Day of all days because he’d been held up on a mission and it had been Evan Lorne of all people driving her to the base hospital at Peterson and being the first one to congratulate her because he’d never even considered not to stay and wait outside the delivery room. But Tom had been there a day later, nearly making her cry with his amazement and confusion and fright when they put his daughter into his arms for the first time.

 They’ve been trying to make it work since then, and it’s tough and driving them insane sometimes but so far, Pip is healthy, whole and keeping them on their toes. Things have been fine, if a little strained sometimes.

 Until that moment when Laura Greenspan called her from the Mountain, an hour ago, to tell her that Tom’s in surgery. Laura didn’t tell her _exactly_ what happened, this not being a secure line and all but she sounded uncharacteristically serious and she didn’t even protest when she told her she’d pack up Pip and come right down to the infirmary right this moment.

 She’s on her way down now, having passed the checkpoints and astonishing herself with practically getting in the face of one of the SFs outside who didn’t want to let her in with a baby in her arms, sleeping on her shoulder. That’s not… really her style. But then again, so weren’t sleeping with a stranger, getting pregnant, falling in love with the father of her baby _after_ becoming pregnant by him, taking up an offer from super-secret government projects and packing up her stuff and moving to a place halfway across the country on short notice and yet here she is. So she _probably_ should have anticipated something like that, anyway.

 By now, she has reached Level 21 and at least, Laura is there right away, moving in to give her a semi hug to the side not occupied by Pip. “What… Laura, what’s going on?”

 Laura shakes her head, and that’s when she notices the pretty big gauze pad taped to her friend’s neck. “Mission clusterfuck. We were ambushed and Tom’s gonna be blaming himself at least for the rest of the month.”

 She frowns. “ _Was_ it his fault?”

 “Fuck, no.” Laura blushes and sure as hell is about to apologize for swearing in front of the baby but seriously, Pip is three months old and also sleeping and Laura being the smart person she is thankfully realizes that in time to concentrate on the important things. “Happens to the best of us, and sometimes, you can’t do anything about it. He did good, getting us out of it as fast as he could.”

 That still doesn’t explain why they’re down here and what Tom is doing in surgery. “What happened to Tom, Laura? And are you and Dee okay?”

 Laura nods. “Yeah, we’re fine. Mostly. Dee’s dealing with the usual post-mission rituals, and I sent him to his quarters to get some rest after that.” She’d actually have paid good money to see that. Laura and the team’s sergeant have had a weird undercurrent going for as long as she has been here, something that’s made it even into the betting pool among the non-gate team staff. “Maureen… Tom should be fine.”

 Okay. She throws Laura a quizzical look. “What do you mean, _should_ be fine?”

 From the look on Laura’s face, she knows immediately that she’s not going to like the story that’ll follow but damn, if people would just stop trying to sugarcoat things for her? Yes, she’s not frontline staff, yes, she’s a damn pogue, yes, she’s balancing a tiny baby on her shoulder right now, but for _fuck’s_ sake she’s wearing a damn uniform, too and she’s being considered for off-world qualification training as soon as Pip is old enough for day-care. She’s not some delicate flower who needs to be coddled.

 “He was shot in the leg three times. One nicked his femoral artery,” oh God, okay, fine, femoral artery is bad, oh God, oh God, o… “but I could stop the bleeding in the field and they could repair it in the OR. He lost a substantial amount of blood but it’s been dealt with. The bullet got lodged in the femur, though, and it’s a little complicated, so surgery took a while.”

 She clears her throat. “So… barring complications, he’s gonna be fine?” Laura nods. “But… he could have died?”

 “Yes,” Laura says, her face very serious for someone who is generally known and liked for her positive attitude and her humor even in shitty situations, “he could have died. In a very real, very permanent way.”

 Tom could have died. In a very real, very permanent way. He could have died maybe two, three hours ago, and all of a sudden, Pip would have had no father anymore, she would have had no partner anymore and there’d be a mess of red tape to deal with and grief and… “I… Laura, I…”

 Her friend puts her hand on her shoulder. “He’s not dead, Maureen. They closed him up about thirty minutes ago, and knowing him, he’ll be let’s say semi-awake soon.”

 Not dead. That’s right. She already said that. Tom is alive and out of the OR and there’s really only one thing left to say, “Can I see him?”

 Laura nods. “Yeah. Just… don’t take anything he says too seriously.”

 She can’t help smiling a little, mostly so that she doesn’t _cry_ with relief. “Painkillers?”

 Laura grins, too. “ _Lots_ of them. And antibiotics. You’re lucky he already had his first waking up thing.”

 Huh? “Uh, meaning what exactly?”

 “Tom… doesn’t react well to anesthetics.” Err, _what_? “He usually throws up after waking from narcosis for the first time.”

 Oh. Oh, okay. She shakes her head. “I should know something like that, shouldn’t I? I mean, I _live_ with him, I…”

 “Hey!” No, no, that’s really a problem. How could she not know something like that? Medical history, that’s something you should _know_ about your partner, even after only six months, and you should know it especially if your partner is in a job field were frequent injuries are par for the course and… “Stop obsessing over it. Maureen, seriously, it’s _okay_. Let’s just go see him, okay?”

 Okay. Okay, yes, that’s a good idea. She just nods and Laura leads her to the post-op section of the infirmary. Tom is currently its only occupant, lying in a bed, a tent-like structure covering his right leg and far too many lines leading from drips to his right arm and hand. They’re still a few feet away from the bed and it looks like he’s still sleeping. “You know,” Laura says, “if you’d rather see him without Pip…”

 Nah. The offer’s nice and all but, “Thanks for the offer, but no. She’s got this thing with only sleeping lying on top of either of us at the moment, so trust me, she’d make life pretty hard for you and the rest of the on-call room.”

 It’s a bit of a nuisance, actually, because it doesn’t just mean that there has to be someone home at all times, it _has_ to be either Tom or her and it can’t be _her_ all the time and Tom being here most of the time because she’d go crazy having to carry around a baby _all_ the time alone at home. She loves Pip, she does, with all her heart but she had maybe six months to prepare herself for her arrival and she still hasn’t fully gotten used to the fact that there’s this child now and the only reason she hasn’t regretted having her, not even once, is that Tom is there, too, just as inexperienced and ill-prepared as her and just as much learning on the job as she has to.

 So Tom dying would have been… it would have been… “Maureen?” She blinks. “You need another moment?”

 Does she? She shakes her head. “No, it’s okay. Just go take a break, Pip and I will be fine.”

 Laura gives her another look, not… assessing, just making sure that everything is truly alright, then leaves with the words, “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.”

 Okay, then. She takes a deep breath, rubbing Pip’s back gently when she stirs and hoping she won’t wake up hungry right now. She doesn’t mind breastfeeding in public but God, does she need some peace and quiet for facing Tom injured and drugged up. She has no idea what he’s like when he’s really under the influence, not just tipsy – again, something she should really, _really_ know, shouldn’t she? – but she has a feeling it’s going to take a lot of her attention.

 She walks up to his bed and gingerly sits down in the chair on his left side some helpful soul, probably Laura, already put there. It’s placed so that she faces him, close enough that they can talk privately without the entire infirmary being able to listen in. As soon as he wakes up, anyway.

 And seeing as that doesn’t look likely to be happening anytime soon, she forces herself to relax, lean back and settle in for the… “Kid? ‘s that you?”

 Or not. Okay. Fine. She can work with that. “Yeah. And look who’s here, too.”

 She can see him opening his eyes, which seems to take some effort. Then registering the baby sleeping propped against her shoulder, he smiles that slow, drowsy, happy smile she usually only ever gets on rare Sunday morning when he’s not quite awake yet and Pip has deigned not to catapult them right into wakefulness for once. “Oh, hey. How’d you even get her past the checkpoints?”

 That’s an interesting question to ask for someone full of painkillers, antibiotics and probably lingering anesthetics. She shrugs. “Sheer audacity.”

 He gives her slurred little snort. “God, you’re such a Marine, you know that?”

 “Yeah,” she says and can’t help smirking, “I think you told me that before at some point.”

 Funny enough, he did. At the height of their fight about her moving to Colorado, after her several minutes long speech about not giving a fuck about his manly sensitivities and about knowing damn well how to fucking fight and about having made her way through all the hoops the Corps wanted her to jump through just fine until now, _thank you very much_ , there had been a pause from his end of the phone line, long enough to scare her a little into being afraid that he’d end their relationship, before he said that one sentence – “God, you’re such a Marine” – and then simply surrendering and asking her when exactly she’ll him over in D.C. for the heavy lifting. It had stunned her a little, that he could switch so easily from a raging fight about the future of her career and their relationship and their _family_ to accepting the change of plans and simply going with it.

 He slowly nods. “Yeah, I think I did.” Then he frowns. “Say… are you alright?”

 Wow. She obviously should work on her poker face. If even seriously drugged up Tom could see enough through her to detect that something’s bothering her, she really has a problem. Or maybe Tom is just better at reading people than he gives himself credit for. She considers simply telling him the same she told Laura but… this is Tom. Tom is… something else. “I will be.”

 She hopes that’s enough and… “Something’s bothering you, Kid.” Okay, obviously _wasn’t_ enough. “Tell me about it?” Under the influence Tom is awfully persistent, it seems.

 For a moment, she wants to keep it to herself, not give him any of her grief. He’s not okay, not right now, and she shouldn’t be burdening him with her woes. But she also feels like she’s about to burst at the seams with having to hold all of it inside, most of it not even articulated, just… _there_ , and yes, bothering her. “It’s not… It’s just… Laura told me what happened. I just need to… work through it is all.”

 He’s silent at first and she half assumes that he fell back asleep when he finally says, quietly and slurred a little less than the rest, “I’m sorry for messing up like that, Kid.”

 No, oh God, no, that’s not what he should be saying. She shakes her head. “No, Tom, it’s okay. This is your job, and according to Laura, you did everything right and as soon as I got all my clearances, I also knew what I signed up for.” That’s not… _exactly_ true because that moment when Laura told her that Tom could truly have died today and the maelstrom of her reaction to that clearly showed her that she _thought_ she knew what signed up for when in truth, she had no idea what she was getting herself into. And yet, she doesn’t regret it, not a day, not a _minute_. Not even now.

 “I didn’t… Laura just says that because she’s my friend.” No, _fuck_ , no. It hurts a little to see this side of him so clearly when he’s so vulnerable right now. She’d seen signs of his insecurity and his tendency to blame bad stuff happening to people he cares about on himself before but never as clearly and as heartbreakingly open as right now. “I could have… I don’t know. I _should_ have known something wasn’t right from the start.”

 She’d like to reach out now, take his hand, pull him back from that land of self-doubt and guilt he just started wandering into but there’s still this baby on her shoulder and she needs both hands to hold her steady. So all she has are her words. “Tom, don’t do this now. Don’t do this to yourself, okay? Please?”

 He shakes his head. “That’s not… It’s just not peak performance, Kid. Some rogue NID fucker getting a shot at my… Ah, shit. So sorry. Didn’t want to swear in front of the Pipsqueak.”

 That, right there, _that’s_ her opening. She rolls her eyes, then gives him a dead-pan face. “Pip’s a military brat, Tom, with one of her parents being a damn Marine.” A pogue Marine, granted, but still _a Marine_. “She’s got swearing in her _blood_.” 

 It makes him laugh. A little tired, a little slurred, but it makes him laugh. She really, _really_ likes the sound of that right now. “Shit, I guess you’re right. We ruined her all the way from conception.”

 She can’t help smiling at that because let’s all be honest here: Pip’s conception, exactly a year ago, was pretty spectacular. “Nah,” she drawls, “I actually think we’re doing a pretty good job raising her.”

 He frowns again. “Yeah, no, _you’re_ doing a pretty bang-up job raising her. I… I don’t think…”

 “Tom.” She shakes her head again, making it clear that she won’t hear any of that right now. He’s been dropping this here and there, indicating that he thinks of himself as a really bad father, not doing enough, not being there enough but it’s not true. Yes, he’s away more often than she is but that’s part of the deal. She knew that would happen. And it’s not a given that it’ll always _stay_ that way.

 He seems to have taken the hint and is quiet for another moment. Then he decides to throw her off her guard. “You know what was the weirdest thing?” Her turn to frown now. “When I went under, you know, before I blacked out, the only thing I could think of was “Damn, and I didn’t even get to ask her…” Huh.”

 Uh. “Ask me… what?”

 He blinks, looking a little confused, like she should totally know what he was talking about. “I thought… that was obvious?”

 Obvi…

 Oh.

  _Oh_.

 Oh _God_.

 It really hadn’t been obvious because they hadn’t even come remotely close to talking about something like _making it official_ and _making it permanent_ and _marriage_. They’d already made everything legal concerning Pip and being her parents watertight but there had never been even the slightest hint of discussion about their relationship. This kind of hits her out of the blue.

 Not generally un _wanted_ , though, just… out of the blue.

 Her first impulse is to say yes. It’s not something she would have thought very likely five minutes ago but it is. She _wants_ to say yes. But there’s this _slight_ obstacle of him being under the influence. She smiles, nevertheless. “Ask me again when you’re sober and we can talk.”

 In the first moment, he looks actually crestfallen, as if he _just_ realized what he said and what he so badly wanted her to answer. Then he even puffs up a little. “Fuck, I am sober. Stone cold.”

 That makes her snort. “Tom, you’re as high as a kite. And I didn’t say no. I just told you to ask me again when you’re sober.”

 He perks up a little. “And _then_ you’ll say yes?”

 “And then,” she says, hating herself a little for it, but she really, _really_ wants him to be sober for her answer, to be able to fully understand and enjoy it, “we’ll talk.”

 She can see very clearly that he wants to keep badgering her but the day seems to be taking its toll and in the end, he just leans back into his cushion, closes his eyes for a moment, swallows and then says sounding _almost_ sober, “Fair enough.”

 He sounds a little disappointed and she does feel bad about that but really, in a proposal of a marriage, _both_ parties should be equally stone cold sober. She sighs, shifting the baby on her shoulder a little. “I promise, Tom. Just… get sober first, get better and you can ask me again.”

 “Okay. I _will_ , though.” She knows he will. She’ll probably even remind him if she has to. Or, honest to God, might just ask him herself. “Kid?” She raises her eyebrows questioningly at that. “Can you… can you stay? For a while?”

 Oh, hell. She’d been prepared for the slurring and the goofy grin and maybe some of that guilt stuff, too and okay, she _hadn’t_ been prepared for a damn proposal but for some reason, what _really_ gets her is that almost pleading voice when he asks her to stay. She nods, trying to hide how much that just affected her. “Yes, I can stay. For a while.”

 That makes him smile that tired, drowsy, happy little smile again. “Good.” And then frown. “And I’ll just… I’m sorry, you gotta excuse me. I gotta go sleep a little now.”

 “Yeah,” she says, smiling at him, even though he already has his eyes closed. “Sleep’s a good idea.”

 He doesn’t answer, already having drifted off, so she just finally leans back and settles in for the duration. It’s really not the Fourth of July she’d had in mind – Tom’s team had been supposed to be off the roster for today but there had been new intel and the need for a Black Ops team and SG10 was the only one that was available on such short notice – but now that she knows that all of them are safe here and on their way to getting better, she can let herself relax a little and enjoy the quietness of an SGC at half-staff.

 And marvel at the turn this entire day, this entire past _year_ has taken, at how far Tom and her have come, at this wonderful, perfect little miracle on her shoulder.

 And at just _how much_ all of this had been Anna Williamson’s fault, in the end. Yeah, she thinks, before allowing herself to doze off a little, she’ll really have to send Anna a thank-you card when she’s back home. Anna will know what it is about. She’s smart like that. She set them up, after all. It really _is_ her fault.


End file.
